Page 23 of Innocently Captured By the Bratva

Despite my reservations about this over-the-top gesture, I can't help but feel a flicker of warmth in my chest.

“Thank you,” I say softly, glancing back at Mark over my shoulder. “This is... incredible.”

He inclines his head, the faintest hint of a smile lingering on his lips. “I'm glad you like it,” he replies, his voice tinged with an emotion I can’t identify. “I want you to feel comfortable here, Quinn. In every possible way.”

The words send a shiver down my spine, and I turn away to hide the flush rising in my cheeks. “I appreciate that,” I manage, busying myself with setting up my phone and logging into my email. “Really, I do.”

“Get to work,” he whispers, but I hardly notice, given the number of emails I have to get back to. I walk over to the desk and turn on the computer.

I lose myself in my work; the familiar routine of emails and spreadsheets offers a welcome respite from the past few days. Minutes bleed into hours as I tackle my to-do list with single-minded focus, the outside world fading away until there's nothing left but the glow of my computer screen and the steady clack of my keyboard.

It's not until I feel the prickle of awareness along the back of my neck that I realize I'm not alone. I glance up, startled to find Mark leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches me with an inscrutable expression.

“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.

He shrugs, a fluid ripple of muscle beneath his crisp white shirt. “A while,” he admits, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into the room. “I didn't want to interrupt.”

I sit back in my chair, fighting the urge to fidget as he perches on the edge of my desk. “Is there something you need?”

His gaze sweeps over me, pausing on the loose tendrils of hair that have escaped my bun and the ink smudge on my fingertips. “I wanted to check in on how you were settling in,” he says, his tone remaining carefully neutral. “And I wanted to ask about your business. How's it going?”

I blink, caught off guard by the question. “It's... fine,” I hedge, unsure how much to reveal. “Busy, but that's normal.”

He nods, his eyes never leaving my face. “And your clients? Any interesting cases lately?”

I hesitate, torn between the desire to protect my clients’ privacy and the nagging feeling that Mark's interest is mere idle curiosity. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” I finally say, choosing my words carefully. “Just the usual mix of high-powered executives and trust fund brats looking for love.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich in the quiet of the room. “I can only imagine,” he murmurs, leaning in slightly. “It must be fascinating work, playing matchmaker for the rich and famous.”

I shrug, trying to ignore the way my pulse kicks up a notch at his proximity. “It has its moments,” I allow, forcing a casual note into my voice. “But at the end of the day, it's just a job like any other.”

His eyes glint with amusement, as if he can see right through my nonchalant facade. “Is that so?” he muses, reaching out to toy with a stray pen on my desk.

I look up at him, my heart skipping a beat as I take in how close he is. “Are you truly interested or just bored?”

He furrows his brows, as though offended at being asked that. “I was just thinking,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine, “about how impressive you are, Quinn. Building this business from scratch, handling all these high-profile clients... It's no small feat.”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. He’strulyinterested. “Thank you,” I manage, my voice wavering slightly. “I've worked hard to get where I am. In the earlier days, I usedto cold call a thousand clients before I landed one. Now, it’s simpler.”

“Word of mouth?”

“Word of mouth,” I nod in agreement.

“I’ve studied your work, researched it. The number of clients you help each year is impossibly large. The highest success rate in New York. Do you ever find time for yourself?”

His words struck a little too close to home, my parents’ words resurfacing to haunt me. All those times they worried about whether I was doing okay. “I'm not lonely,” I insist, though I don’t know to whom. “I have my work, my clients. That's enough for me.”

But even as I say the words, I know they're a lie. And from the knowing look in Mark's eyes, he knows it too.

“Is it?” he challenges softly, his gaze holding mine. “Is it really enough, Quinn?”

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. Because deep down, I know he's right. As much as I love my work, there's a part of me that yearns for something more.

Mark notices the hesitation in my eyes and presses his advantage, leaning in even closer. “There's no shame in wanting more, Quinn,” he whispers. “Success isn’t the be-all and end-all.”

I stare at him, my breath coming faster as I feel myself being drawn into his orbit. Every instinct tells me to run, to push him away, and to retreat behind my carefully constructed walls.

“Perhaps,” I say, turning to look back at my computer. “But there’s a lot more I need to achieve before I consider myself to have achieved some semblance of success.”

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